


Going Once

by likebunnies



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, First Time, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:53:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likebunnies/pseuds/likebunnies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A savory proposition is presented to Scully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Once

**Author's Note:**

> Completely ridiculous story written sometime in 1999 after the movie "Fight the Future." Same theme used again and again in various fandoms I've been in after this just for fun. -- Jori

A Friday afternoon in July  
A diner somewhere in DC

"Once."

"Once?" I ask.

I can't believe I'm considering his proposition. That is what it is. A  
proposition. A proposal. A plan. A scheme. Hit shift-F7 on the  
keyboard and those word all come up in the convenient MS-Word  
thesaurus, which, by the way, comes in handy when trying to come up  
with a new word to replace 'mutant' for the latest report. Deviation.  
Anomaly. Aberration. I hope they add more in the next version because  
I've already used any one of those too many times.

But back to the 'proposition' at hand. I have to look away from his  
eyes to consider it. Watching him watch me makes it *too* easy to say  
yes and run right out of this establishment of 'fine' dining and  
straight to his apartment for an afternoon of 'once-ing.'

"So, what do you say?" Mulder asks, his voice low and growly. He did  
that on purpose. I know he did. I have never heard him talk to Skinner  
like that. He usually doesn't talk to me like that. Not unless he  
*really* wants something. Usually that something isn't anything more  
than a waxy cup of pre-sweetened tea and a Choco-Taco from the corner  
mini-mart. Rarely has that something included . . . me.

"What constitutes 'once?' We need to establish . . ." I start to ask  
before I'm interrupted by a chuckle and that low, growly voice again.

"Jeesh, Scully. Do we need to have a contract written up? Once is . .  
. once," he says, as he goes back to lazily stirring his iced tea.

I can watch his constant stirring but not his eyes. I look at that  
hand moving that spoon around and around oh so slowly around and  
around. The ice cubes move around the spoon and the tea around the ice  
cubes and there is even a little lemon going around and around just  
because of his hand. The sugar he poured in is even stirred up into a  
tiny tornado at the bottom of the glass. I wonder if that hand could  
do that to me? Could it make me go around and around, stirring up  
everything into a tiny tornado . . .

I shake myself out of whatever fantasy that might have been and look  
up at him quickly. "Okay. Once."

I hear his spoon go *clink* loudly against the bottom of the tea  
glass, dropping it after all the muscles in his hand simultaneously  
stop working. Or maybe that was his jaw hitting the table. I don't  
think that would go *clink* though.

He's going to back out of it. He always does. Every time I get close,  
he scatters like a terrified little field mouse being chased by a  
ravenous barnyard cat. It is okay as long as it is his game, but as  
soon as I'm the cat, so to speak, he gets, and excuse me for this,  
'spooked.'

I sit back into my plush vinyl booth, cross my arms in front of me and  
wait for the great escape plan. How is he going to elude me this time?  
His eyelids are already fluttering like the wings of butterflies fresh  
from their cocoons as they try them out before taking flight. He is  
trying to figure out how he is going to dodge this and take his own  
'flight.'

He opens his mouth, which by the way is another remarkable reason to  
'once' with him, and nothing comes out for a few seconds. He can't  
even formulate an excuse to cut and run this time. Maybe when I agreed  
to this, that is what I was counting on. He'd get us both out of it.

I pick up my cup of hot tea and blow on it, sending a swirl of  
cinnamon scented steam his way. He's still watching me. His mouth is  
still open. He's still thinking. I don't know whether to be offended  
or not. I just offered myself up to him and he's trying to get out of  
it.

"I'll pay the bill," he finally says, as he sweeps up the check and  
signals for the waitress. "Your place is closer."

*Clink!*

And this time it isn't just a spoon hitting the bottom of a glass.  
This time it is a whole damn cup of tea hitting the saucer.

****************************

Mulder doesn't know how to start a car. I mean, I know he knows how to  
start a car, but right now, he doesn't know how to start a car.

Insert key in the ignition and turn until it is humming. If he can't  
even do that, can I honestly expect him to figure out how to insert  
other 'things' until I'm the one humming?

"Do you want me to drive?" I ask. Although I'm enjoying the floor  
show, I'm curious as to how the main act is going to go. If he takes  
much more time at this, we may never get that far. We do have that  
meeting at 7 a.m. Monday morning.

"No," he says sharply and it finally turns over.

"Reverse," I tell him after we nearly smack in to the car in front of  
us.

"I know," he says, as he shifts it into gear and looks over his right  
shoulder. After we are out of this tight space, he looks forward  
again. It is amazing how he did that without once meeting my eyes.

He is nervous. I somehow managed to pull myself back together after  
scalding myself with my tea. It was very calming as I watched it  
spread across the table and over the edge on both sides, bringing me  
back down to earth. Luckily, he jumped away before it could hit his  
lap. That would have given him a convenient excuse to back out of  
this.

I play with the buttons on the radio for a couple of minutes but I  
can't find anything befitting this occasion. I leave it on one of  
those 'soft and easy favorites from the 70s, 80s and today' stations  
because I know it bugs the crap out of him. Especially considering Air  
Supply is playing. He doesn't seem to notice.

"Are you warm?" he asks as he fiddles with the a/c lever. It is  
already on max and I can see little ice crystals shooting out at us  
from the vents. He already has a glistening layer of sweat on his brow  
that has nothing to do with what temperature it is in here right now.

"No, Mulder. Are you?" I ask, and he stops messing with the controls.  
Instead his hand moves up to the knot on his tie and he plays around  
with it. God, I hope he doesn't take it off. That is something I've  
always wanted to do to him. I'm quite good at it, actually. And tying  
them again. Maybe before we go back to work later . . .

"Mulder . . . that was my street," I say, as he drives right past it.

"Shit! Why didn't you say something sooner?" he asks, and our old  
married couple routine begins.

"You've only known where my apartment is for how many years now?  
You've managed to find it in various stages of being drunk, drugged or  
wounded, and now you miss the street? I didn't know you still needed a  
map sketched out for you," I say, as he makes an illegal U-turn and  
heads back towards my place. He finds a parking spot near the front.

"This is different. This is . . ." he says, finally looking at me. His  
eyes lock on to mine and there is so much there that has never been  
put to words. My heart nearly skips a beat before it starts racing  
away. This isn't just a game of 'once.' Did I ever really expect it  
would be? Oh no. This is a lot more than that.

******************************

My apartment feels as warm to me as the car must have felt to him.  
Actually, all of a sudden, it is stifling in here. I adjust the  
thermostat and Mulder just stands in my living room, not knowing what  
to do with himself.

"Make yourself comfortable," I call out to him as I hit the button on  
my answering machine. One call from my mother. It is always nice to  
hear your mother's voice right before you are going to . . . what is  
the word I'm looking for here? Damn, where is that thesaurus when I  
need it? Copulate? Fornicate? Those just don't seem appropriate for  
this situation. I look over at Mulder as he continues to stand in that  
same spot, as if his feet are glued to the floor.

Make love? Nah. Couldn't be. That sounds like something straight out  
of a Lifetime Channel movie of the week. How about get intimate with?  
Or have an affaire d'amour? That almost makes me want to laugh more  
than the making love bit. There just is no word befitting this  
occasion. It is beyond words. Oh, great. Now I sound like I'm writing  
the script for the next Lifetime movie.

Eyebrows raised, his eyes meet mine as we both listen to my mother's  
voice fill the room. Before she can completely break whatever mood we  
might have going here, I hit the stop button. He nods his head in  
agreement over my action.

"Do you mind if I change my clothes? This is still damp from the tea  
and I want to soak my blouse before. . ." I say, and Mulder smiles at  
me. How many people change their clothes and soak a stain before they  
'once'? I'm sure he is thinking just Dana Scully.

I stand there in front of him with my fingers on the top button of my  
blouse. What am I going to do? Go put on a t-shirt and shorts just to  
take them off again? And how exactly are we ever going to get that far  
if he doesn't move?

Leaving my shirt just as it is, I put my hand out to him. Mulder looks  
at my eyes and then to my hand and back to my eyes again. I nod my  
head yes and he seems to walk in slow motion to where I am standing.  
Those hands that couldn't even start a car just a half an hour earlier  
are extremely dexterous when it comes to buttons. I look down at his  
fingers as they undo each one starting from the bottom and going up.  
Once they are all undone, he doesn't push my shirt off or go groping  
underneath. He doesn't even open it in the slightest. No, nothing like  
that at all.

"Why don't you go soak your shirt? We've waited this long. What's  
another ten minutes?" he says, as he tilts my head back up so he can  
look at my face.

Mulder means it, I'm sure, but something in me doesn't want to wander  
away from this. I'm afraid by the time I get back, we will have come  
to our senses. He will find a reason to bolt from here and search for  
some mysterious 'oddity.' I don't want that to happen.

"Who says I can wait?" I ask, as I slip my shirt off my shoulders. It  
lands in a tea-stained puddle behind me and Mulder looks like he is  
going to end up in a puddle in front of me.

He hesitates for just a moment, undecided as to where to put his hand.  
It is just long enough for my heart to really get going again. And  
that is the spot he finally decides upon. He puts his hand above my  
breast right over my heart.

"Scared?" he asks. Just because my heart is thumping away like the  
heart of a frightened rabbit does not mean I'm scared. On the  
contrary, I'm terrified. I'm just not going to admit that to him.

"Scared? No. Should I be?" I ask. His hand is still there on my chest.  
And he knows I'm lying.

"I don't know," he says. "Why would you be?"

"I'm not. I think I can keep any fears in check -- for just once," I  
say.

With that my hands move to his right side and I remove his holster and  
gun and set it on the table next to my answering machine. Well, that  
is a start. It is damn near impossible to have sex with someone while  
they are packing heat. It may work in cowboy movies, but in real life,  
it just isn't practical. Especially if you are trying to get in a  
quickie while standing . . .

"What are you thinking about?" he asks as I reach around my back and  
deposit my weapon next to his. Cute. His and hers.

"Oh, I wasn't thinking anything really. Just wondering about this  
'once' thing again," I say, and my hand slowly undoes his belt buckle.  
Then the fastener. Then the zipper. I drag my hand slowly, heavily,  
deliberately down the front of his pants as I pull his zipper open,  
feeling everything that is inside waiting for me. It is like shaking  
the box before opening the gift. And I'm already impressed with what  
is inside. It's as if he is wrapped in that blue paper from Tiffany's  
and I just know it is going to be good.

"What about this 'once' thing?" he asks. It is an effort for him to  
ask and his breath is labored. Already.

"Should there be certain conditions?" I ask, as I let his pants drop  
over his narrow hips. He kicks off his shoes and steps out of his  
pants. I avoid looking down. Even his runner's legs look, as do all  
male legs, goofy in dark socks and nothing else except boxers. And his  
dress shirt. And tie. When I finally do look down there is something  
to distract me. Oh my.

"Conditions?" he asks, his voice getting high pitched by the time he  
got to the question mark. I think that has something to do with my  
hand now feeling the 'present' through just the tissue paper. I'm not  
ready to unwrap it all the way yet.

"Yes. Conditions. I think for 'once' to count, we *both* have to be .  
. . satisfied . . . at least one time," I say, my hand pressing even  
more firmly against him. He presses back against me, seeking more.

"Fine . . . I can live with those conditions," he says, as he sharply  
sucks in a breath of air when my hand leaves him. I want that tie off.  
I want that shirt off. What in the hell is happening here? He's the  
one who expedited this whole 'once' thing, and now I'm the one tearing  
off the wrapping paper and not even taking the time to save the bow.

I get his tie off with one quick motion of my hand. I discard it  
quickly and move on to the buttons on his shirt, feeling the expensive  
cotton moving under my fingers. Something prevents me from just  
ripping it open, sending the little buttons soaring through the air  
like confetti on New Year's Eve. Perhaps it is the fact that this  
shirt probably costs more than my tea-stained one. Or else I just  
don't feel like sewing all those little white buttons back on before  
we return to work.

The last one is undone and I slide his shirt over his shoulders and --  
damn -- I forgot the cuffs. He's now stuck with this shirt behind him,  
bound by the cuffs. It gives me ideas . . . but not ones that should  
be approached during this particular 'once.'

"Sorry," I say, as he slides his shirt back on and unbuttons the  
cuffs.

"No problem," he says, and now the shirt is off, and then the socks,  
thank God.

I hook my thumbs into his boxers and tug them down carefully, freeing  
him. He is watching me as I look down at him. Yeah, I've seen it  
before. Just not like this. I have to look at the package. I can't  
help myself.

Oh my my my.

This is even better than when I got my '2001 Physics Experiments Done  
in the Kitchen' lab kit for Christmas one year.

He tilts my face up again and he has that cocky look on his face. I am  
certainly glad I can conceal exactly just how aroused I am. Except for  
the fact that I'm flushed in pre-sex crimson and my eyes are probably  
dilated to the size of that saucer I broke at the diner, no one should  
be able to tell that I'm burning from the warmth between my thighs.  
Nope. No one.

"You like what you see?" he asks in the most presumptuous tone I've  
ever heard. And as much as I want to say something biting, I instead  
find myself nodding yes. And then everything starts to move in a  
slapdash manner. I am somehow in his arms and he is carrying me. He  
takes me to my kitchen / the kitchen?/ and he lifts me up onto the  
counter. I look down and discover why. We will fit perfectly here.

My skirt is pushed up to my waist and I am now thankful for thigh  
highs. Can't live without them during the summer. I am also thankful  
for the fact that I ran out of my dull, grey cotton underwear this  
morning and had to resort to an emerald green silk pair with ruffly  
sides. I push myself up using his shoulders and he does away with the  
panties without even noticing them. Then he unrolls each stocking from  
my legs. And then my bra is discarded the way of the panties, landing  
somewhere between my Cuisinart and my Mr. Coffee.

He hones in on my breasts, taking one nipple in between his lips and  
fluttering his tongue across it, sending a jolt of happiness and joy  
down my spine and into my nether regions. I moan and I can feel him  
smile against my breast right before he moves to the other one. He  
suckles at that one even longer, causing me to throw my head back and  
smack it on the cabinet.

"Ouch!" I say, not intending to break the mood, but it did hurt.

"Swroory," he says, never moving his mouth away from my breast.

Then those hands, oh yes, those tea-stirring hands, part my thighs and  
start stirring me. He is going to stir up those sugar tornadoes at the  
bottom of my very being, and a tempestuous mix of sweet heat and quick  
lightning is moving up my spine.

"You like that?" he asks, and again I find myself nodding like an  
idiot, not able to speak a word. "Then you might like this."

He sinks to his knees, and my legs are over his shoulders. His breath  
is hot against my inner thigh, and I find myself squirming toward the  
edge of the counter, trying to get closer. Trying to get him where he  
is most desperately needed.

Then contact is made. I can feel his tongue lapping against me and I  
realize I am no longer the barnyard cat. He is. And I am a bowl of  
sweet cream.

Oh my God and all the angels in heaven. I forgot how good this is. I  
have to grip the edge of the counter to keep from flowing over the  
edge and into a puddle of bubbly goo on the floor. Now that would be  
an X-file. Special Agent Fox Mulder performs cunnilingus on partner  
until she turns to goo. Highlight film at 11.

He sucks and tugs in all the right ways, and I know I could come right  
now. Right here. And it would be a caterwauling orgasm that all my  
neighbors would hear. All because of that mouth I've been watching for  
years. That mostly arrogant and sometimes condescending mouth is all  
over me and it is control of my every nerve ending and I can feel it  
all the way to the ends of my hair.

I look down at *this* and all of a sudden realize we never even  
kissed. His mouth is moving over my most personal parts and I have yet  
to ever kiss that mouth. I want to. I need to.

I pull him up and wrap him in my thighs. Our mouths meet and he tastes  
of my warm wetness and something else far more intoxicating. I can  
taste him under me and I like it. His tongue focuses on my mouth with  
the same intensity as I just experienced below and I don't remember  
ever being kissed this damn good.

We part, and he pulls my hips forward, even closer to the edge of the  
counter. With one /okay, maybe two/ quick strokes he is inside of me  
and I am wrapped around him and this is what I've been missing all  
those years. It was so damn close and I was missing it.

Our pace is hurried, frantically searching for a release to this storm  
brewing inside. He is slamming into me and he looks down once to  
glance at where we are now joined, as if he is the one who now needs  
proof. Then his eyes are back to focusing on mine as we bang and bang  
and bang against each other. I'm the one who wants him to move faster,  
to pound into me harder because oh it feels so good. I slide around  
until his body is hitting my clit with every stroke he makes and I  
know this time I'm definitely turning to goo.

"Mulder?" I say, or at least I think that is what I say.

"Wha--" he answers.

"We have to reconsider this once thing," I say, gasping as my body  
begins to pulsate around his. Oh yeah. This is what I've been missing.  
Not the orgasm. That can be achieved in any old hotel room across the  
country. No . . . the orgasm while wrapped around someone who is  
banging into you like there is no tomorrow. It is so intense that I do  
slip forwards off the counter and he has to catch me, my back still  
arched in extreme pleasure. I'm quivering like a nervous toy poodle.

"You like that?" he asks smugly again.

"Yeah. Now what would you like?" I ask, as I push harder against him,  
pulling him in deeper and deeper. His breath escapes in tight little  
panting noises and I know he is close. "I think I know what you would  
like."

I push him away from me and jump /or slip and slide, considering . .  
. oh, never mind/ off the counter. I turn away from him, and take a  
quick look over my shoulder. He is grinning like a kid getting a shiny  
new bike for their tenth birthday. I firmly place my hands against the  
counter and he enters me again, moving faster now then he was before.  
I push back against him, matching him thrust for thrust and he is so  
very deep inside of me that I swear all my organs are being shoved  
further up just to make room for him.

His hands are wrapped around my hips, moving me in the way he likes,  
swiveling me with every thrust. Our accelerated pace is almost enough  
to make me come again, but not quite. I know I could if I would just  
reach down between my thighs, but this one is about him.

Suddenly and with the fury of a hurricane storm surge, he slams  
against me one last time before coming inside of me. It fills me with  
a long forgotten warmth that I must admit I've missed. I now have a  
part of him in me.

He utters something, but I'm not sure I can translate it precisely. I  
think it was 'oh my God, that was fucking great,' but I could be  
wrong. He might not have mentioned God. He falls over me, and our  
sweaty, sticky bodies adhere to one another.

"Scully?" he whispers in my ear, breathing rapidly.

"Yes, Mulder?" I ask, as equally out of breath.

"Twice?"

The End


End file.
